by Emily Childs
“Rafe, baby!” She grins and waves me in. “Come give me a kiss, oh, who’s with you? Ollie! Get in here girl.”
Olive pushes past me and wraps my mom in a bone-crushing hug.
“Millie, how are you doing?” she asks. “I think you’re moving better every time I see you.”
I watch the moment with deliberate focus, memorizing the little things that are unique to these two women. Mama brushes a lock of Olive’s auburn hair out of her face, then Olive does the same to my mom’s blonde curls. They hold hands, and I’m not sure either notices.
Moments like this matter. Too much.
“They’re working me hard, sugar,” Mama says. “I’m getting my money’s worth. A few more weeks and I’ll be free, at least according to the therapy team. Now, son, why have you not said hello?”
“Hey, Mama,” I say, kissing her cheek before she sits in a reclining chair by the window. “You eat already?”
“Yeah, I need to do it with the speech department. I keep telling them I can swallow just fine, but they don’t seem to believe me. Making me tuck my chin with every bite and such nonsense.”
I laugh. Olive pats my mom’s knee. “Well, they know what they’re talking about, Millie. You’d do well to listen.”
“Girl when did you grow up and start giving me orders?”
Olive laughs again, and I realize I could watch their banter all day. Dalia never spoke with my mom this way, not the entire year and a half we were together. She greeted Mama politely and answered questions, but never drew out the playful side of Millie Whitfield. Olive does it without effort. Then again, Mama was the one who taught us all how to tie our shoes. I suppose that makes a different sort of relationship.
Olive squeezes Mama’s shoulder. “Now that I can outrun you I figure I can get a little bossy.”
“Well, it won’t be long and I’ll be able to switch that rear end just fine. Like old times. By the way, Ollie, don’t you think that top is a little low? Your chest is about to pop right out.”
“Mama,” I mutter, cheeks hot.
Olive shoves my shoulder. “Relax, Rafe. Millie and I have an understanding. She can say what she wants so long as she’s being honest, right, Mill?”
“Well, I probably talk too much now.”
“I like it,” Olive assures. “Maybe more people should be more honest, don’t you think? And to answer your question, no it’s not too low. If I’ve got the goods, I’m going to use them.”
Can’t say I disagree, but I’ll keep that to myself.
“So,” my mom says. “What brings you two here together. Been awhile since y’all showed up as a pair.”
Olive isn’t smiling now. I clear my throat. “Well, we had something we wanted to tell you.”
“I’m listening.”
Mama is playful. She’ll laugh this off. I hope. “You, uh, remember Ollie was engaged—”
“Thomas Abernathy,” Millie interjects. “Sugar, you know he doesn’t deserve you.”
Olive’s cheeks turn pink, but I simply smirk at her. “Yeah, I agree with you, Mama. The thing is, Ollie, uh, she called off the engagement for . . . a few reasons.”
“Good for you, honey.”
Olive takes her hand and takes over the conversation. “Millie, there’s something more. I made the mistake of calling off the wedding at my engagement party, and you know how Mama is.”
“Oh, you brave girl. I bet Bernie was as red as a tomato at having to tell all those guests. Last I heard it was near a hundred invited.”
Olive wrings her fingers together, glancing at me for comfort, I guess. I don’t have any to give, my stomach is in knots too. I give her look telling her I’ll take it from here and blaze into the story. Everything from Mrs. Cutler slapping Thomas, kicking him out, to Ollie and me becoming the biggest engagement in town.
After a few breathless moments, my mom chuckles. “You’re telling me . . . you two . . . are engaged?”
“No, Mama—not for real. Do you understand?”
Clearly not, since she practically hoots her excitement. “Oh, I’m over the moon! I can’t tell you how long I’ve been prayin’ to the good Lord that you two will wise up and realize you are nuts about each other. When’s the wedding?”
“Millie . . .” Olive tries, but stops when Mama stands, a little shaky, but she steadies quickly.
“Here, Ollie.” We watch as my mom digs through her purse with her stronger hand. “Here, I want you to wear this for the time being, or for good, whatever you want. It was my mother’s ring.”
My throat tightens, and Olive seems ready to burst into tears as my mom shoves the small diamond into her palm.
Olive shakes her head. “No, Millie. I can’t, I can’t take this.”
“You can. It belongs in this family. Lily’s grandma gave her ring to August to use, so this naturally will go to Rafe’s love. Should we see if it fits?”
Olive hiccups and her chin quivers. She glances to me, and I don’t know what to say. I shrug and nod, as if she’d need my permission since my mother is on a mission.
Slowly, Olive slips the ring on her left finger.
Mama clicks her tongue. “A little snug, but we can adjust it.”
I swallow with effort, eyes on the ring. Compared to the size of Tom’s ring, it’s tiny. However, in my opinion, the Whitfield family ring looks perfect right where it is.
“Millie,” Olive croaks. “The thing is we aren’t really—”
“We aren’t really planning anything until you’re home,” I interrupt.
“Oh, don’t you put anything on hold due to me,” she says.
“No, we really . . . really want you to be a part of it.” Olive castrates me with her eyes. If I had any sense, I’d keep my mouth shut. But I’m not always known for my good sense. “So, you keep working hard, Mama, and get out of here.”
I let her pull me in for a hug. She kisses my cheek. “You two have made me so happy.” Mama takes my hand and urges me to hold Olive’s. “I swear to you boy, even if I can’t move or think as quick, if you break her heart, then you’ll deal with me.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I whisper, squeezing Olive’s clammy hand.
Funny how I thought I’d get in trouble for agreeing to this farce, but I didn’t plan on being the one who dug the hole deeper.
Olive
8 years ago
Rafe is stoic and staring off in the distance when I bike up the curved back drive toward the two-story garage. Millie and the boys live in the apartment over the top, and I think she did a mighty fine job turning it into a real, comfortable home.
I leap off my bike, mouth open once I catch sight of Rafe’s bloody knuckles. “Rafe, what in mercy’s name happened to your hand?”
“Ollie, it’s best if you aren’t here right now. You’re Mama and Daddy probably would have something to say about you coming down here.” His voice is flat and lost in some thought he can’t seem to shake.
“What are you talking about? I always come down here. Where’s Auggie and your mama?”
“At the school.”
“It’s almost six o’clock.”
“It’s because of me, alright?”
I march over to the stoop, but Rafe turns and stomps up the stairs. So, I end up chasing after him into the apartment.
“Wait up!” I shout at his back. “What happened?”
Ever since Rafe joined the track team, his body seems faster in every way, not to mention, I’m not blind to a few ripples forming on his arms and legs. He only turned fifteen a few months earlier, and if he keeps going the way he is, I’m certain toned Rafe will be catching my eye more than a few times. But that’ll stay my secret.
Inside, Rafe digs through the freezer, then plops cubed ice into a bowl. I don’t wait for him to give me permission before I grab a towel out of a drawer by the stove and dump the ice into a plastic bag. Rafe slumps into a chair at the table, sort of grumbling under his breath, glaring at the bowl of apples in the center.
> I make a quick ice pack and sit at his side, resting the cool towel against his knuckles. “Are you going to talk to me, or keep pouting?”
“I punched your cousin, alright? Smack in the nose. Mama got a call that he needed stitches and it’s likely broken. Your uncle called my school and put some pressure on them to expel me. I could get suspended, but Mama’s arguing with the principal now, since it wasn’t on school property. August is there as a witness or whatever, but really who are they going to believe? Me, or Beau.”
“Why’d you hit Beau?”
“I don’t want to say,” he pouts.
“Rafe, tell me.” I sigh and rub the bridge of my nose.
“Why are you so upset? You know Beau had it coming.”
“Probably, knowing his mouth. I’m upset because I don’t know why you think you need to fight all the time. Why are you so angry, Rafe? It’s like the older you get, the more you talk with your fists and not your smart mouth. How many times has your Mama been in there pleading your case?”
“You sound like a shrink.”
“I was hoping I sounded more like a friend, idiot.”
Rafe sighs and stares at the ceiling. “You want to know why I get angry? I’ll tell you, but you’ve gotta swear you won’t tell anyone. Promise?”
“Cross my heart.”
He studies me as if to make sure I mean every word, then nods. “I caught Beau, Tommy, and Nick spouting off to August about stuff they have no business bringing up.”
“What sort of stuff?”
Rafe’s square jaw pulses, and he brushes his hair out of his eyes. “Stuff about my dad.”
My breath catches and I consider punching my cousin. “That’s cruel, even for them. Why would they say things about your daddy when he’s . . . dead?”
Rafe drums the table. “I told you he was dead and gone, but I lied.” Rafe rolls his eyes when my mouth drops. “Can you hold off getting mad at me for a little longer? There’s a reason, okay. I’m . . . ashamed of him. I didn’t want you to think differently of me.”
Silence follows. The kind that raises the hair on the back of the neck. A crack carves its way through my heart. I’ve never seen Rafe so vulnerable, so hurt before. I cover his good hand with mine. “I would never think differently, or less of you, Rafe.”
A twitch teases a smile in the corner of his mouth. “My dad’s name is Jed Whitney. The Whitneys live up near Charlotte. I’ve seen the man once, and it was an accident. He didn’t say a word before he just shoved past me.”
“But how would Beau know about him?”
Rafe clears his throat. “Because your uncle just got done doing business with the Whitney’s and the secret came out. Your Uncle noticed after a few meetings that I sort of look like him.”
“Wait, business with them? I don’t understand.”
“My dad comes from the same circles as you, princess. Now you know. Your parents have known forever, but they promised Mama they wouldn’t let on where we came from. It’s why your Daddy let us stay on the property. Pretty decent of him to keep any eye on us, give us a home when family put us out with nothing. He told your uncle to steer clear of business with him; I don’t think the Whitneys ditching us sits well with your daddy.”
I beam with a deeper pride for a moment. My daddy is a good man.
Rafe curls his bloodied fist under the ice, eyes dark, almost dangerous. “My old man slept with the maid, then didn’t want anything to do with his two mistakes. He’s been trying ever since to cut us out completely. I guess I had a grandma, or someone, who was forcing him to make payments to my mom. Child support or whatever. But she died, and ever since then he’s been trying to get out of . . . us, I guess. He even came here a couple years back telling my mom he had a ‘real’ family now. Mama doesn’t ask anything from him. She told him he could stop paying, but it’s something to do with a will, or automatic withdrawals or . . . I don’t know, Mama doesn’t like to involve us too much. Hey, don’t start bawling on me,” he chuckles and wipes a tear from my cheek.
“I’m sorry, I just can’t imagine a man leaving his children.”
“Welcome to the real world, Ol,” Rafe snaps. “Anyway, Beau told August we were gutter trash, that even our own daddy can’t stand the sight of us. He was starting to be indecent about Mama’s character when I got there. I didn’t let him finish.”
I sniffle. Rafe’s father is like mine in terms of money and status. Who would have known? Except Daddy is a real man and loves his child. This Jed Whitney is a no-good-rotten coward in my fourteen-year-old opinion. Without thinking, I drape my arms around Rafe’s neck, squeezing tightly.
We’ve never really hugged before. Maybe a few side embraces on birthdays, but never a full, choke-the-life-out-of-you hug.
It takes a few moments before Rafe cautiously wraps his arms around my waist, holding me against his chest. I lean into him when he buries his face into my shoulder, and my heart breaks a little more when he clings to me with a new kind of desperation. Like I’m his sure footing.
“Rafe . . .”
“Yeah,” he mumbles against my shirt.
“I hope you broke Beau’s nose.”
Chapter 9
Rafe
We haven’t said anything since we left.
Occasionally, I’ll sweep a quick glance at her, but Olive hasn’t looked anywhere but out the windshield. Her thumb rubs the diamond ring on her finger.
When the shore comes into sight, she finally clears her throat and glances my way. “You let your mother believe we were engaged.”
“I know,” I say sheepishly. “She was so happy and I didn’t have the heart to let her down.”
“What happens when there’s no wedding, Rafe? How let down is she going to be then?” Olive’s voice is eerily cool. I wish she’d scream and yell more than this unsettling calm she’s mastered.
“I don’t know, Ol, give me a second to work through it.”
“No, you don’t get a second. Because it’s one thing to play make-believe at parties with people who couldn’t give two licks about the two of us, but it’s another thing to lie to a woman whom we love. What about August? You going to lie to him too?”
“Ollie, I don’t know. I panicked. I haven’t even told August.”
Olive has a way when she’s angry. Her eyes sort of transform into narrow slits, her breathing is calm, and even, and the whole of it is terrifying. As if some power coming from her scowls compels me to apologize no matter if I think I’m right or wrong.
I flick my gaze once, twice, feeling smaller the way she’s simply watching me. Scrutinizing me. Breaking me without a word. When I crack, I give the steering wheel a slap. “Sorry, okay. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have dug us deeper with Mama.”
“You should be sorry, Rafe.” Olive settles back against the seat, lips tight.
I try to seem put-out with her frustration with me, but she’s too endearing, too right not to smile. I slither my palm across the seat and squeeze the pressure point just above her knee. She shrieks and slaps at my hand.
“Rafe Whitfield! I will knock you so hard you’ll see tomorrow before dinner.”
The tension eases in the truck when I pull into the parking lot of her complex. She nudges my shoulder and I offer a sincere grin as an apology. “I am sorry, Ollie. For all of this.” I shut off the engine and rub the back of my neck.
“It’s not all on you. I just like to blame you.” She winks and melts me a little with her smile. “I could’ve stopped this at the beginning. I’ve been thinking, though, since there are more and more people believing this is real we need to establish some ground rules.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know, like on Sunday we weren’t expecting to kiss. I think some . . . boundaries would be good.”
Rules are a good thing, but boundaries are becoming increasingly difficult with this woman. I don’t like it. We’ve always had a comfortable relationship, and I don’t need to be messing anything up w
ith thoughts about her lips, her body, her kisses. Not when I feel like we’re finally getting back to normal without fiancés and girlfriends stepping between our lifelong friendship.
“Why are you pouting?” she teases when I’m quiet too long.
“I’m thinking. Do I get a say in these rules?”
“You can have a say, you big baby. Now, come on, let’s go plan our fake engagement.” Olive jumps out of the truck. I hesitate. Since she moved, I’ve never seen this apartment. Tom and Dalia would’ve hated that idea, spending time alone at each other’s homes. Olive pats the hood of the truck. “Are you coming? Or is that going to be one of your rules, not going inside your fiancée’s apartment?”
“You think you’re a regular comedian, don’t you?” I tuck my keys into my pocket and follow her into the building.
The apartment isn’t enormous, but high end. Countertops are made of white granite, furniture looks fresh off the display floor, and the flooring seems custom. I like that she doesn’t have a TV. Where one might be is a large bookshelf, lined top to bottom with books, paintings, jars of sand and shells, and a few potted plants.
I grin, lifting a glass vase filled with snail shells. “You still have all these?”
“Those are treasures, Rafe.” She nods to another vase half-filled with seashells. “I’m working hard on that one. Someday I’ll have an entire room dedicated to shells. How amazing would it be to have jars filled with shells from around the world? That’s the dream at least.”
I return the jar and shove my hands into my pockets. “This is nice, Ol.”
“I can’t believe you’ve never been inside,” she mutters, her head shoved inside a kitchen cabinet. She grabs two wine glasses and holds up a bottle of Merlot, silently asking if I’d like some. I do.
“Besides,” she goes on while she prepares the drinks. “I’m milking it while I can. Once I graduate, I plan to find my own place and live on my own salary for once. But why not let Daddy spoil his only daughter through college?”
“At least you’re honest about it.”